by James Craig
Helen followed his gaze. ‘There’s a new production of La Traviata coming up. It’s supposed to be good. I was thinking of taking Alice, if you’d like to come.’
‘Not really my kind of thing,’ he said immediately.
Alice looked up from the copy of Maus, the graphic novel about the Holocaust, which she had brought along for a little light reading at the dinner table. ‘Peasant,’ she teased him.
Carlyle smiled graciously. ‘You are too kind, my dear.’ Just then, the waitress arrived with their drinks, saving him from further abuse. He took a mouthful of his Kingfisher lager, and Alice took a gulp of her Coke and returned to her book.
‘Christina called me this afternoon.’ Helen looked at her wine but made no effort to reach for the glass.
Uh, oh. Carlyle wondered if he should have called Umar’s wife on their way back to London. Too late to worry about that now.
‘She said,’ Helen lowered her voice so that, even sitting next to her, he had to strain to hear her over the hubbub, ‘that Umar got shot.’
‘Just a minor scratch.’ Carlyle tried to calculate how much Umar would have told his wife and how much Christina, in turn, would have told Helen.
‘Hmm.’ Finally reaching for her glass, Helen took a sip of her wine. The poppadums arrived. Showing no interest in her parents’ conversation, Alice began mechanically breaking them up and shovelling pieces into her mouth. ‘According to Christina, it sounded like a gangland shooting.’
‘Nothing so dramatic,’ Carlyle said airily, grabbing a poppadum while he still had the chance. Breaking it in half he plastered some mango chutney on it. ‘It was just an accident. You know what a drama queen he can be.’
‘Christina says he wants to leave.’
And he might get his wish, very soon. Now, however, was not the time or the place to tell Helen about his sergeant’s foray into photography. ‘He’s always said he fancied being a househusband but they can’t afford it.’ The waitress returned to take their order and Carlyle gave her a big smile, grateful that his grilling had been interrupted.
‘And another thing,’ Helen continued, ‘why didn’t you tell me about Chase Race?’
‘Who?’
‘The rapper,’ Alice helpfully reminded him from behind her book. ‘Likes to beat up his girlfriend. Mum wants to get her hands on his cash.’
‘Alice.’
‘Oh, that Chase Race,’ Carlyle laughed, cheered by his wife’s irritation. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘He spent the night in your cells,’ Alice told him. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Ah. That would explain all the snappers hanging around the other day.’
‘Honestly, John,’ said Helen, exasperated, ‘sometimes I think you walk around in a daze. You never pay any attention. What do you do all day?’
‘Now you’re sounding like my boss,’ he said.
‘There was a fight in a nightclub,’ Alice giggled, ‘and Mr Race was arrested. Now he’s offering Avalon a hundred and fifty grand to try and rehabilitate his reputation.’
‘Wow.’ Carlyle looked at Helen. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah. Every time he does something stupid, he lumps in an extra £50,000.’
‘You should sit tight,’ Carlyle chuckled. ‘It’ll be a million soon enough.’
‘I personally want to bite his hand off. The Board are still more than a bit sniffy about it though.’
‘God. As if your job isn’t hard enough.’ As he gave her a consoling pat on the arm, an idea started to flicker in his brain. ‘Have you met this guy?’
‘Once. Why?’
‘What was he like?’
‘Like someone who was struggling to pretend he was housetrained,’ Helen said drily. ‘In a word, feral.’
‘That’s what kids are into these days,’ Alice observed.
Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Do you think you could arrange for me to meet him?’
He had been at his desk long enough to switch on his computer and let a wave of ennui wash over him when Amelia Elmhirst sauntered over, grinning from ear to ear. Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a grey silk blouse, she looked totally out of place in the shabby surroundings of the third floor of Charing Cross police station. Deploying the willpower of a dozen men, Carlyle tried not to stare.
‘I hear that you got Umar shot,’ she said, perching on the edge of their absent colleague’s desk.
‘Not quite,’ the inspector replied, keeping his eyes firmly on the screen of his computer. The cleaners had made a halfhearted attempt to remove Sonia Coverdale’s lipstick but her faded message was still perfectly readable. Wondering how Sonia was getting on, he made a mental note to get some proper screen wipes the next time he passed a Superdrug store.
‘It’s the talk of the station,’ the sergeant giggled. ‘You walked him into an ambush and he nearly got his balls shot off.’
‘That might have been a blessing,’ Carlyle riposted, not missing a beat. ‘Put a stop to the boy’s interest in photography.’ He was surprised to see Elmhirst blush slightly.
‘Apparently he’s gonna be off sick for months.’
At this, Carlyle sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘I followed Umar into an ambush,’ he informed her, ‘and had a nasty smack to my head, by the way. He took a minor flesh wound to the thigh. Nothing serious and his famous wedding tackle was never in any danger. The doctor says he should take a week or two off. All this stuff you’ve been hearing is just exaggerated nonsense.’
Elmhirst nodded solemnly. ‘You know what it’s like; the truth is always the first casualty of war.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to the gossip,’ Carlyle admonished her.
‘Gossip or not,’ she shot back, ‘you’d better make a big contribution to his collection.’
‘Collection?’
‘The guys on the front desk started it last night,’ Elmhirst explained. ‘They’ve got more than £200 already.’
‘It was just a bloody scratch,’ Carlyle objected as he calculated how much he would have to drop into the pot; £30 at least. ‘Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘was there something I could help you with?’
‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘I’m Umar’s replacement – in the short-term at least.’
‘Oh?’ The inspector felt his mood lighten immediately.
‘Commander Simpson asked me to step into the breach.’
‘Excellent.’
‘She said that my languages might be useful.’ Noticing his baffled look, she added, ‘I speak French, Portuguese and German.’
As Elmhirst disappeared back downstairs, Carlyle idly speculated on the possibility of having her as a full-time replacement for the hapless Umar. After a while, the mobile on his desk started vibrating and he picked it up. There was no Caller ID on the screen but he took it anyway.
‘Carlyle.’
‘Inspector, you are sounding cheery this morning. Been busy locking up criminals?’
‘Something like that,’ Carlyle said coolly. ‘How are things in the imploding world of the media?’
‘Oh, you know. Same as ever – a constant struggle for survival in the face of the forces of progress.’
Carlyle glanced at the clock on the far wall. ‘It’s a bit early for you, Bernie, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a 24-7 operation these days,’ Bernie Gilmore replied sadly, ‘constant rolling deadlines. We journalists never sleep.’
‘My heart bleeds. What can I do for you then, at this early hour?’
‘I have a little story that I’m lining up . . .’
Carlyle’s heart sank. ‘If this is about bloody Operation Oakwood—’
‘No, no. That didn’t really have any legs. This is something different.’
‘Yes?’ The inspector ran through a range of possibilities in his head, none of them good. Where did their little out-of-town adventure take place – Bedfordshire? Did Bernie have any contacts there?
‘I was wondering if you might be able to give me s
ome information about a hat.’
A hat?
‘Inspector? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Carlyle irritably. ‘You want some information about what?’
‘I’m running a story about the £1,000-headgear that your boss has bought for Trooping the Colour.’
‘I thought it was only . . .’ He stopped himself in mid-sentence.
‘What?’
‘N-nothing,’ he stammered. ‘What has Trooping the Colour got to do with anything?’
‘I have a very good source.’
Aren’t they all?
‘This source tells me that Commander Simpson will be representing the Commissioner at the event this year. She has splashed out on a special Napoleonic-era hat to wear on her horse, Santa.’
‘The horse is called Maverick.’ Oops.
Bernie started scribbling away. ‘Good to know. Anyway, the TAPW – Taxpayers Against Public Waste – are up in arms. Their chief executive, a Mr Clive Boyson, has given me a nice juicy quote complaining about the police wasting a couple of Monkeys on a hat at a time when there is no money to pay for good old bobbies to walk the streets, nicking vandals and deporting illegal immigrants, et cetera, et cetera. I’m going to ask Simpson for a quote but, seeing as you’re her boy, I wondered if you could just confirm the number for me.’
‘It wasn’t a grand,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘It was only £800.’
‘Maybe that was ex-VAT. A grand would be a better number.’
‘Bernie, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Either way, it’s a lot of money for a hat. Have you ever spent £800 on a titfer?’
‘No,’ Carlyle said, ‘of course not. But what’s with the rhyming slang, all of a sudden?’
‘Fun stories like these,’ Bernie explained. ‘They just unleash my inner Cockney cheeky chappy. They make me smile and I know that they’ll make the reader smile.’
‘Glad to know we’re keeping you amused.’
‘With these kind of stories, as I’m writing them up, I hear them being narrated in my head by Sid James.’
‘Maybe you should go and see a shrink for that,’ Carlyle replied. ‘Anyway, you know that Sid James was South African?’
‘Get away.’
‘Yeah. His real name was Solomon Cohen. I saw a documentary about him recently.’
‘Well, well, you live and learn. Anyway, what were we talking about?’
‘Simpson’s £800 hat.’ Carlyle lowered his voice as one of the other inspectors, a dour bloke called Beckett, walked past. ‘Look, it’s a special kind of hat she has to get specially fitted because it doesn’t have a chin strap and she can’t have it falling off on the day.’
‘Yes, yes.’ More scribbling.
‘C’mon, Bernie,’ Carlyle protested, ‘it’s not Simpson’s fault. She only got the gig because some other woman fell off her horse.’
‘Dangerous things, horses. Why anyone would want to get on one is beyond me.’
‘Carole doesn’t deserve to get a slagging in the press over this.’
‘It’s a story,’ Bernie grunted. ‘If I don’t write it, someone else will.’
‘You could sit on it for a while. Maybe it will just fade away.’
‘Impossible.’
‘What about if I give you something else?’
The sound of scribbling ceased instantly. ‘What have you got?’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Well? Have you got something, or not?’
‘Er,’ Carlyle prevaricated, ‘I might have something interesting on the Chelsea massacre.’
‘That was days ago,’ Bernie snorted. ‘Tell me about something that’s going to happen. Something sexy.’
Sexy.
‘The hat,’ Bernie reminded him, ‘now that’s a decent story. And, of course, I can always pad it out with a bit of backstory about her bent husband.’
‘Her late bent husband,’ Carlyle put in, ‘as if that is relevant.’
‘The fact that a senior police officer’s husband was a convicted fraudster is always relevant,’ Bernie said.
‘She’s not that senior.’
‘She’s senior enough to be doing Trooping the Colour.’
‘C’mon Bernie, Simpson’s all right. Give her a break.’
‘I didn’t say she wasn’t. I don’t decide what’s a story. Gimme something else.’
‘OK, OK. There are a couple of possibles.’
‘Why don’t you tell me them both,’ Bernie coaxed, ‘and I’ll decide which one is the best.’
No fear, Carlyle thought. If I do that, you’ll have both of them written up before I get off the bloody phone. The inspector would have preferred to give up the story of Werner Kortmann’s disappearance – it was a miracle that it hadn’t leaked already – but there were too many gaps still to be filled in. As things stood, he wouldn’t put it past Bernie to run a Keystone Cops lose German Bigwig story. Worst of all, it would essentially be true. In the end, he recounted the story of Brian Yates and the alleged contravention of the Sale of Goods Act 1979.
‘Is that it?’ Bernie asked when he had finished. ‘Who was the hooker?’
‘No, no. Let’s not go there. She’s perfectly nice and doesn’t deserve to be mocked.’
‘Not a dog, then?’
‘Not at all. I think she’s quite pretty in a girl-next-door kind of a way.’
There was an awkward pause before Bernie asked: ‘You haven’t been . . .?’
‘No, no,’ Carlyle said hastily.
‘Well then,’ Bernie let out a long sigh, ‘not much of a story, is it?’
‘It’s at least as good as the hat,’ Carlyle countered. ‘Sid James would find it funny.’
‘At the very least, I need a picture: the hooker or the punter. Both would be best but either is fine. The hat story, we can always wait till Trooping the Colour and get a nice pic of the Commander all dolled up.’
Carlyle rummaged around in the top drawer of his desk until he found the business card that Yates had given him. After reading out the guy’s mobile number, he recited the company’s web address. ‘I’m sure you’ll get a picture on there.’
‘Yeah, but will it be high-res?’
‘I’m sure your picture desk can sort it out,’ said Carlyle soothingly.
‘We’ll see.’
‘So we have a deal?’
‘Let’s see what I can get out of this. I’ll sit on the hat thing for now. I can tell the Taxpayers Against Public Waste that we are planning on running it to coincide with the ceremony.’
‘Thanks, Bernie.’
‘I can’t promise that they won’t try and take it to someone else though.’
‘Understood.’
‘I’d give Simpson a heads-up, if I were you. Just in case it does pop up somewhere else.’
‘Good advice. Thanks.’
‘I hope that she appreciates what you’re doing for her.’
So do I, Carlyle thought.
‘Now, what’s that other story you mentioned?’
‘It’s early days yet. Too soon. I’ll tell you when I’ve got a bit more, promise.’
‘Fair enough. Oh, by the way, Seymour Erikssen . . .’
Carlyle frowned. Seymour Erikssen was a burglar who had been arrested so many times, the media had dubbed him ‘London’s crappest criminal’. The time he had slipped through the inspector’s fingers was a particular low point in Carlyle’s career. ‘Ye-e-s?’
‘You haven’t seen him lately, have you?’
‘No, why?’
‘It’s just that I hear he’s operating on your patch again, that’s all.’
‘Great,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘That’s all we need.’
As always when he ended a conversation with Bernie Gilmore, Carlyle was conscious of feeling vaguely depressed, about life in general and his own circumstances in particular. On this occasion, he decided to remedy the situation with a trip to the canteen. Edna would doubtless tell him that it was closed, but he was sure he co
uld talk her into selling him an iced doughnut and an Americano. Pushing up from his chair, he headed for the door only to be confronted by the wonderous Sergeant Elmhirst. Confusingly, she was accompanied by Alison Roche.
‘She was looking for you downstairs,’ Elmhirst explained, gesturing at Roche. ‘I didn’t know you had a female sergeant before.’
‘These things happen.’ Carlyle nodded at Roche. Dressed in a black T-shirt and an army surplus parka, SO15’s finest looked tired and irritable. He hoped that she hadn’t arrived to give him a bollocking for something.
‘Boss.’ Giving Elmhirst a sideways glance, Roche commented, ‘I’d be careful. He gets through sergeants at quite a rate of knots, does the inspector.’
Elmhirst frowned but said nothing. For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Was there a bit of tension between the two women? Or was that just wishful thinking on his part?
‘How’s the beekeeping going?’ he asked.
‘It seems more like hard work than anything else,’ Roche said truthfully, ‘but I’ll stick with it for a while.’
‘Good for you.’
Nonplussed at the chit chat, Elmhirst stepped between them and thrust a sheet of paper into Carlyle’s hand. ‘I think you’d better take a look at this.’
Carlyle checked out the picture of an innocent-looking young man with thinning hair and a pair of John Lennon specs. He was smiling comfortably while looking directly into the camera. ‘What’s this?’
‘That’s Sebastian Gregori.’
‘Eh?’ Carlyle did a double take. The guy in the picture looked nothing like the man he knew.
‘I printed it off his company’s website,’ Elmhirst said. ‘Maybe we should have taken a look at that earlier.’ We as in you.
Maybe I should, Carlyle thought glumly.
‘I spoke to his boss in Berlin,’ Elmhirst continued. ‘Apparently he is with a client in South Africa right now. Has been for the last three weeks.’
